


Repression

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Coercion, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Sexual Coercion, Temporal Paradox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19975993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: The Doctor would do almost anything to save his companions' lives—especially if he'll never have to remember it afterwards.





	Repression

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written eleven years ago for the best_enemies anon meme. "Five/Simm!Master during the 18 months pre SoD, with some plausible explanation for why the Doctor doesn't remember. http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/13938.html?thread=257906#t257906 "

“It’s a bubble,” said the grinning, disconcertingly familiar man to the bewildered Doctor without preamble. The Doctor had just stepped out his TARDIS and, as was often the case, was confused as to why he wasn’t at Heathrow Airport. This time he’d promised to take Tegan back to pick up the things she’d left in her work locker before she’d rejoined the TARDIS crew. That at least made something of a change from his unsuccessful efforts to get her there in the first place. 

“Lock the door.” The strange man waved a hand at the Doctor’s TARDIS. “That should keep your companions at bay. I don’t really fancy dealing with your collection of ginger-spectrum annoyances any more than I already have.”

“My companions come and go as they please, thank you.” The Doctor smiled politely. A certain rigidity to the set of his face that belied the fact that he didn’t take kindly to orders.

The man rolled his eyes. He was playing with a device that looked like the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver’s debauched brother—the Ernest Worthing to his own device’s John. “I’d forgotten you could be such a misery guts. Let’s “reframe”, shall we? Lock them in, or watch me kill them. I’ve not even given this thing a proper beta-testing yet. Who knows what it could do? Setting 189’s supposed to produce a decent Peking duck in a survival scenario, but I suppose it might as well do in one of your sad primitive bed-warmers. 

The man pretended to deliberate, tapping the screwdriver against his lip. “Hm, who should go _first_ , though? Knife-throwing girl-wonder, or the cheap imitation? Hearkening back to school days, were you? Did you miss lusting after a debauched young thing in a uniform with decidedly dubious morals? Oh, I just can’t decide which of them _deserves_ it more.” 

The man’s sarcastic distress would have been comic, if he weren’t fiddling with a deadly weapon while he spoke. Not to mention running his hands over it so eagerly that the Doctor couldn’t help seeing the man would rather be fiddling with something else entirely.

The Doctor locked the door behind him, not taking his eyes off his opponent. “For the record, your description of my _friends_ is nearly as inaccurate as your plans are ludicrous. Master.” The Doctor gave in and named him—the man’s identity couldn’t be more obvious if he was still wearing a beard. 

“Excellent. Speaking of beta runs, I never did get to work your kinks out.” The Master leered, and the Doctor observed—despite not particularly wishing to—that the Master was far less good at that, this time around.

Restraining himself from rolling his eyes, the Doctor tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So, you’re a future incarnation then. I can’t say I’m impressed.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” The Master smiled. He’d somehow forgotten this Doctor’s tendency to waspishness. It was at once annoying and endearing. Without it he’d have been too soft, almost a parody of himself. This Doctor’s thin, sharp nasty streak was the pinch of salt that gave a cake its structure and flavor.

“Including out of this alley?” The Doctor raised an enquiring eyebrow. “No, I rather thought not. It seems there are limits to even my conversational talents. I believe you mentioned a bubble of some kind?”

“Never miss a trick, do you?” The Master advanced on the Doctor and patted his cheek with extreme condescension. “I’ll put it so simply my constituents could understand.” The Master circled him as he spoke, letting the Doctor pivot on his heels to follow him. He smirked at the confusion that fluttered across the Doctor’s face at this mention of the Master’s latest electoral coup (MP for Flydale North—not shabby, and right on schedule). 

“Story time, Doctor! Since you can’t do a single thing about” he gestured vaguely around him, “whatever it is I’m doing in this time period—and I can guess how _that_ must drive you ‘round the bend—let’s have one of our nice little chats where I tell you all my plans and you try to pretend you aren’t impressed. 

“Now, when you create a massive, load-bearing time paradox—”

“When you _what?_ ” The Doctor’s voice squeaked in shock—which, again, the Master found equal parts precious and _annoying_. 

The Master turned to the Doctor and, whip quick, was an inch from his face. “It’s _rude_ to interrupt,” he hissed through his teeth and nearly into the Doctor’s. The look in the Master’s eyes was intense—he seemed likely to lunge in at any moment and savagely _bite_ the Doctor’s temptingly plump lower lip. It had dropped low as the Doctor’s face took on an open-mouthed, aghast expression that seemed to the Master like pure invitation. But the Master smoothed his own features and stepped back. 

“Now where—oh _yes_. As you can probably guess, given the look on your face, a paradox on this scale distorts the universe. Fiddles with the warp, fucks with the weft.” The Master savored the Anglo-Saxon word like a very good dinner someone else had paid for. “And it leaves space-time looking like poorly-plastered wall paper. Thus, bubbles. Nature, slut that she is, abhors a vacuum. So she seizes a chunk of drifting space-time moving in the Vortex—a TARDIS does nicely—and plugs the hole, until she’s out of the bubble and done with you. By my calculations the time stream will pop you back where you were headed as a side effect of bubble-burst, and your Rassilon Imperateur will take care of the possible memory crossover issues.”

“And how long does your bubble last?” the Doctor asked, rather gamely. 

The Master, leaning back against the door of the Doctor’s TARDIS, checked his watch. “Barring the time you’ve wasted? Precisely 45 minutes, 17 seconds, and, oh,” his mouth made a moue and he waved his fingers in estimation, “53.3 repeating nanos, let’s say? Time enough to fuck you, at any rate.”

“Excuse me?” the Doctor sputtered.

The Master pouted. “But Doctor, you won’t even remember having given in.”

“That’s beside the point, I’m afraid.” The Doctor glowered. “Aside from every other reason not to, I believe _you_ might remember, it not being _your_ bubble. And that’s nearly as bad.”

“You know, Doctor, your pets aren’t part of continuity. Not to any important degree.” The Master voiced this non sequitur in a conspiratorial hand-to-one-side-of-his-mouth stage whisper. 

“What do you—?” The Doctor abruptly began to understand. “What have you done, Master?”

“Well,” the Master shrugged, “I might have emptied a philter of an _incredibly_ reactive liquid through the keyhole of your beloved deathtrap. And that liquid _might_ react with the alloy that coats the interior of your console room. It might take that chain reaction roughly three quarters of an hour to build up to the point where it starts producing a gas that will flood the TARDIS and kill your pets.” The Master examined his fingernails. “And you know,” he tapped his fingers on his chin in achingly familiar rhythm, starring up at the sky absently, “I think I just might remember how to make an antidote?”

“Naturally,” the Doctor said, his eyes narrowing. 

“There there, Doctor,” the Master reached out and put a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. At first the touch seemed almost commiserating, but then with slow, sure pressure it guided the other man to his knees. “Or better still, down there.”

The Doctor swallowed, disbelieving. The Master savored the picture of him kneeling in the decidedly unclean alley, his trousers in all likelihood getting filthy. “In all these years,” the Doctor’s voice was level, “you’ve never—you’ve not once—” 

The Master understood that the Doctor was trying to invoke some feeling of guilt or shame in him, and the Doctor’s relatively calm disapproval did provoke a stab. The Master, violently but easily, suppressed the reaction. The Doctor haltingly rested a warm, long-fingered hand on the fabric covering the Master’s cock. Then the Master suppressed an altogether different reaction, because it wouldn’t do for the Doctor to see quite how much this affected the Master, or for the fun to end too soon. 

“Oh,” the Master pouted mockingly at him, “did you want me to make you, sweethearts? Back in the bad old days. Would that have made it easier for you? If I’d just taken you over my knee and given it to you whether you liked it or not? _Teeth_ , Doctor.” The Master’s pout shifted into a slow smile as the Doctor took his fingers off the silver tab of the Master’s expensive suit and pulled it down with his teeth, freeing ready flesh. The Master stroked his fingers through the silky blond hair and gave it a good, hard tug that made the Doctor wince and stumble forward the last few inches, bringing his soft cheek to rest against the Master’s half-hard cock. 

They were still for an instant. The Doctor’s downy cheek softly rasped against the Master’s sensitive skin, and the Doctor just _breathed_. Against all sense, the moment had a strange, quiet sweetness. This was what it might feel like if he’d ever had this Doctor by the man’s own volition, the Master realized. It was pathetic, wasn’t it, to try and get what you’d never had the opportunity to enjoy the first time around—only to realize it wasn’t going to be good enough, and that you wanted something even _more_ impossible. 

The Master told himself that he didn’t have time for this gentleness, that it wasn’t at all the kind of thing he sought from this encounter. He turned the contact into something hard and comprehensible as quickly as he could. “Come on, then,” he snapped. “We’re working with a time limit, and I’m not a satisfied consumer yet. So _consume_ , Doctor.”

Obediently, the Doctor slid hesitant lips around the head of the Master’s cock. His blue eyes were sharp with shock that any of this was happening at all, let alone happening to him. The Doctor always did take his charmed existence for granted, the Master thought bitterly. 

There it was again, that fucking gentleness—the Doctor flicked out his tongue like he was delicately tracing the soft-serve swirls of an ice cream cone. Why couldn’t he _ever_ just do as the Master wanted? Frustrated by the Doctor’s tentative licks, the Master grabbed the back of his head to control the rhythm, deciding against the terribly tempting option of simply fucking the Doctor’s throat. 

“Having fun yet?” the Master sneered at the disheveled Doctor. The Doctor looked up at him, eyes flashing, and moaned something indignant and ridiculous and so very _him_ (some variant of “How _could_ you?”, perhaps) around the Master’s cock.

The Master shuddered and bucked his hips forward involuntarily. The Doctor’s indignation was something of an acquired kink of his. 

“Mmpf!” The Doctor made a surprised murmur against the sudden movement, and the Master laughed, loving his noisiness. The Doctor had, by now, presumably gotten the point about being overly nice. The Master wasn’t going to make it easy for him by simply using him as a fuck-toy, either. The burden of making decisions—what to do with his throat, where to put his tongue, when to suck, how hard and all the rest—rendered the Doctor far more involved in the encounter than he could possibly be as a mere receptacle. Besides, the Doctor was terribly clever at everything he turned his mind to. So the Master let him do the bulk of the work (and excellent work it was, too), and restrained himself to punctuating the proceedings with random thrusts and jabs into that pretty mouth, just to eek out the Doctor’s panicked, annoyed, indignant sounds (like a delicious little squeezebox!).

Seconds away from coming, the Master pulled out. The Doctor was actually innocent enough to look confused, and to open his mouth in a question. The Master, wanting to laugh again at the Doctor’s naïveté, gave himself two hard strokes and came, painting the Doctor’s expression with his come, letting it land on thick-swollen lips and flushed-cream skin. He took his thumb and smeared a bit into the Doctor’s slightly sweat-damp mop of silky hair. The picture was as lovely as he’d ever imagined it. 

Irritated, the Doctor tried to wipe it off his face. The Master watched the process lazily, delighted when the Doctor failed to get the thick glob stuck to his eyelash or the lashing on his chin. Feeling a bit sorry for him now that he’d had his fun, the Master drew a small white packet out of his jacked pocket and tossed it at the Doctor. With a suspicious expression, the Doctor opened it and discovered a moist towelette.

“You always do over-plan everything.” The Doctor rolled his eyes, wiping off his face with the towel. 

“Bit in your hair as well.” The Master grinned unhelpfully.

“Will that be all?” The Doctor’s tone of was sarcastic pleasant detachment was glacial.

The Master snickered. “It’s been fifteen minutes, and we’ve another full half an hour left on the clock. What do you think I’m going to do, shove off and let you just moon about in the alley rueing?” The Master tsked. “That would make me _such_ an ungracious host.” 

It was hard to make it out in the dim light, but the Master was fairly sure that the Doctor’s tight cream trousers were disturbed by the hint of an erection. The hectic glow of the Doctor’s cheeks and the labored quality of his breathing hadn’t fully dissipated. The Doctor hadn’t wanted this, but he’d been affected by it nonetheless. The Master had suspected that the Doctor, perhaps this Doctor in particular, would respond well to a bit of rough treatment, and was pleased to have his suspicions confirmed. 

The Master expected that if he said anything about it, the Doctor would only make some cutting reply about his reaction being purely physiological, or hardly limited to the Master. That would ruin the Master’s current good mood and leave him stewing for days to come. If he thought to use the opportunity provided by the Doctor’s inevitable forgetfulness to say anything he normally wouldn’t have to the other man, the fear of what the Doctor would say in return killed the impulse dead. He knew from experience that if he gave the Doctor any opportunity to speak, he’d pay for it. The Doctor would say something devastating and wholly unlooked for, and the Master would occasionally remember those words like sudden jabs, decades later (as he did many of the Doctor’s most effective barbs). As the Doctor had so astutely pointed out, it wasn’t the Master’s bubble, and he wouldn’t forget. And so rather than scoring the possible point about the Doctor unthinkingly licking his swollen lips, and _certainly_ rather than saying anything about their shared past and their relationship beyond this encounter, the Master chose not to open himself up to the expected countermeasures. Not commenting on the Doctor’s state didn’t mean he couldn’t take advantage of it.

“My knees hurt,” the Doctor commented, almost to himself.

The Master didn’t look as if he minded that at all. “Come here,” he instructed, and the Doctor warily stood and stepped closer to him. With spent laziness, the Master draped a hand across the back of his shoulders and kissed him languidly. Did it again. They were both somewhat surprised to find themselves simply making out, slowly and luxuriously, like they were teenagers again. The Doctor didn’t exactly play along, but he breathed into the Master’s mouth, warm and shivering, and he made a light sighing sound, and then something that might well have been a choked moan. The Master felt himself responding, recovering faster than he might have thought possible. He made the kiss deeper and harder and more suggestive of what they’d be doing next.

The Master managed to walk them backwards until that the Doctor’s back pressed up against the TARDIS. He stepped back a moment and made a motion for the Doctor to get undressed. The Doctor tried just removing the most necessary clothing, but the Master’s hands tugged at the Doctor’s jacket and jumper so viciously that if the Doctor didn’t want them ripped and ruined (and wouldn’t _that_ be a joy to explain to Tegan and Turlough, he thought with a grimace), he was going to have to remove them himself. 

The Doctor tried to turn around, away from the Master, and to plant his face on the cool blue wood and look at something else. But the Master’s hands were on his hips, turning him back. The Master eased the Doctor’s thighs up, encouraging the other man’s ankles to lock around the still-dressed but unimpeded Master’s back (though his expensive trousers were around his ankles, probably getting irreparably dirty in this alley). 

The Doctor looked at the opening of the alley, out onto the street, and then back at the Master with sudden fear, a high blush. “Someone’s bound to walk by, someone will see,” he hissed. Somehow he hadn’t thought of it before. The distraction that implied was especially humiliating to the Doctor, because there was no way the Master would miss it. 

“Good,” the Master laughed. He almost wanted someone to witness his pretty toy getting pounded into his own TARDIS, wanted someone to hear the inevitable shrieks, to know exactly who was forcing the chaste ice-prince Doctor to produce all that delicious noise. What he really wanted was for the Doctor to remember this, or admit to the part of him that wanted to be here. The confirmation of strangers would at least be the shade of what he couldn’t have. 

Preparation went quickly, and then he was pounding into the Doctor, banging the Doctor’s blond head into the wood with the occasional too-hard thrust, sticking his fingers between those gaping, pleasure-contorted lips to be sucked before he wrapped them around the Doctor’s lovely cock (he wanted to taste it—a pity they hadn’t more time) and forced out the fabulous _noises_.

“Doctor,” he whispered into the man’s wide-open, whimpering mouth. He gave the Doctor’s lolling tongue a quick, hard suck and then let it go. “Like that. Louder. For me.” He made it happen even as he commanded it, wrapping a hand around the back of the Doctor’s head to protect it from the wood and simultaneously establishing the psychic contact that let him dial the Doctor up even higher, turning the Doctor’s whimpers into near-delirious sobs of pleasure.

“Please,” the Doctor choked out. “Please, please.”

The Master pushed the Doctor into coming first so that he could feel the squeeze of it, could ride out the trembling after-shocks and finish himself by pumping into a body already gagging from an overload of sensation. It was what he wanted, but he also knew the Doctor well enough to know that the other man enjoyed being given more than he could handle, in every aspect of his gloriously chaotic life. He liked to encourage the Doctor’s greed on every occasion that presented itself. 

The look on the Doctor’s face made the Master swallow hard. The Doctor had never been so beautiful. It was almost horrible to know that the Doctor was better, even, than the dreams of avarice. This was the only time the Master would ever see him like this. Pro forma snide remarks about the Doctor’s companions aside, it might well be the only time anyone would. Any Doctor, and this one especially, had an impressive capacity for ignoring his own needs. While the Master would cheerfully kill anyone who’d shared the experience, he acknowledged that this was its own small tragedy. 

Slowly, he leaned in and kissed the Doctor. It felt somehow like a first kiss, realer than the rest. Dazed, the Doctor responded. After a moment the Master pulled back, and silently reminded himself of why it was safer to trade superficial insults with the Doctor than to do or say anything more revealing. The Master suspected this kiss would linger in him with all the weight and power of the terrible words he hadn’t let the Doctor speak. He’d be taunted by the impossible possibility of it: a different life, if they were different people. Perhaps this had been a mistake. The Master knew himself for a coward, and for a moment, incandescently hated himself.

The Doctor, still perched and impaled on him, caught between the Master’s arms and the wood, came back to himself slowly. He blinked his way into awareness, and settled into a look of cool, detached dislike like he was getting dressed in it. 

The Master liked that look far less than the Doctor’s earlier expression. It too was handsome, but the soft radiance that had animated his features a moment ago was gone as if it had never been. The Master slipped out of the Doctor, easing him down, and then turned away from the Doctor to allow them both to right their clothing. It was accomplished quickly, and the Master turned back to him with a bright, hard grin.

“That’s time, then.” He pressed a slender phial into the Doctor’s hand, and the Doctor tended to the keyhole before turning back to him. “Let’s not say goodbye, my dear Doctor,” the Master plagiarized his earlier incarnation ruthlessly, “but au revoir.” Somehow the Doctor’s celery stick had come free of his jacket, and the Master was twirling the length of it between his fingers in a way seemed, even in light of what they’d just done, indecently suggestive in a public setting.

With a grim expression, the Doctor snapped his celery out of the Master’s hands and stomped into his TARDIS, stalwartly refusing to look back (though he could still hear the Master’s laughter). He slammed the door behind him with undue force. If he ever saw that man again, it would be too soon. 

“Where were you?” Tegan demanded. “Surely it wasn’t Heathrow! We were starting to get really worried! We tried the door, and—”

“Not quite right, no.” The Doctor smiled sunnily at his companions, forcing it a bit. “I’m afraid I had to lock the door to keep the creature I was talking to out there from getting any nasty ideas about coming in to give you a piece of its teeth. Still, it’s dealt with now. Onwards, eh?” 

By the time the Doctor keyed in the next coordinates, the reason he was so sore had gone fuzzy in his mind. By the time he stepped out into both a field and the middle of a jousting match, in what looked like England (roughly circa the signing of the Magna Carta, if the Doctor was any judge), he’d forgotten the affair completely. 

The king’s champion gave him a strangely familiar smile that the Doctor, try as he might, couldn’t quite place.


End file.
